


Echoes in the Alley

by tisfan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Dancing, Kissing, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Underage Drinking, boys pining, winter soldier - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-26 23:03:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9927998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: Bucky like to practice...Dancing, smoking, drinking... and kissing.





	

_1934_  

It was always Bucky’s idea; Bucky who was born healthy and beautiful and strong and who grew tall and straight-backed and even when he was too young to be considered “a catch,” there were girls in bows and braids who looked at him and sighed. 

Steve didn’t argue about it, even though he knew the practice wouldn’t be enough, scrawny and sickly, underfed and crook-backed, half deaf and unable to compliment a girl on her dress without messing up what color it was. No girl was going to look twice at him whether he knew how to dance or not. 

But Bucky looked. Bucky looked, and that was all that really mattered to Steve anyway, although he would never had said such a thing out loud. And it was Steve’s hand that Bucky held in those endless practices. Bucky’s arm around his waist, or hand resting lightly on Steve’s hip, or shoulder. 

And Bucky would never, ever have suggested that Steve always take the girl’s role, even though Steve was a good eight inches shorter and lighter and decidedly less graceful. They swapped, because this was _practice_ , Bucky insisted. They both needed to learn so they could woo dames, so they both had to take turns, leading and following. 

Of course, neither of them had a phonograph, so they couldn’t practice in the privacy of their homes. Although sometimes Mrs. Carlson, in the early spring after winter’s nip was out of the air, would play her few recordings, the phonograph set up near her tiny window so they could hear the music on the fire-escape. Mrs. Carlson was a widow, like Steve’s mama and she played the music that she and Mr. Carlson had loved, before he’d gone off to the war. 

Bucky would race up to Steve’s at the first sound of music in the evening air, and they’d end up on the fire escape, Bucky’s hand in Steve’s, moving in slow, graceful circles around on the tiny platform. 

Steve had lived for those moments. 

Bucky liked to practice. 

That’s what he said, at any rate, and Steve did his best to believe it, because the alternatives were too painful. 

Steve considered them, sometimes, at night, when it was too hot to sleep and his window was open and sometimes he could hear Mrs. Carlson two floors below with the new man who came ‘round but didn’t find her good enough to give her his name. 

Either Bucky thought _Steve_ needed the dances because he knew as well as Steve that it was all the human closeness Steve would ever have. 

Or that he secretly yearned for the same thing that kept Steve awake at night. That _practice_ was all they could name the thing that burned between them, the wanting and the knowledge that they could never have it. 

Bucky liked practice, and as they got older, dancing wasn’t the only thing they practiced. Bucky brought cigarettes, and while he wouldn’t hear of Steve smoking them, Bucky sometimes practiced, that he might light one in front a dame and look cool rather than coughing himself green in the face the way he did the first few times while Steve watched and laughed. 

He brought liquor a few times, cheap, bathtub gin that stung in the nostrils and burned in the back of the throat and brought about a nice, easy dizziness and carelessness that Steve loved. If they’d been drinking too much, sometimes Steve would get so dizzy that Bucky let him lay his head in Bucky’s lap and Bucky would comb his fingers through Steve’s blonde hair. 

One night, they’d been practicing holding their liquor, even though it was autumn and the New York city wind smelled like burning leaves from Jersey and trash and the leftover molder of heat, Mrs. Carlson opened her window and put on a record. 

And how they _danced_ that night, freer than they’d ever been, Steve and Bucky, and for just a single, golden evening, Steve knew that he belonged to someone. 

The song ended and Bucky -- being Bucky -- dipped Steve back, his hand strong and steady under the curve of Steve’s back, holding him. Steve knew that Bucky would never let him fall. And when Bucky brought him back up, there was something in that moment, between sunset and darkfall, that was magic and perfect. Steve brought his hand up to cup the back of Bucky’s head, just like he was a dame, and Bucky’s eyes were shining like stars. 

The press of Bucky’s mouth to his was as sweet as cider. Bucky tasted like smoke and gin and his lips were soft and perfect, shaping exactly to Steve’s. 

When Bucky finally pulled away, Steve didn’t know how to look at him, didn’t know what to say, but Bucky said it all, his mouth tipping up in that sly grin of his. 

“We need to practice.” 

Steve considered that for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. Probably need more practice.” 

* * *

_2017_

Steve was up on the roof of his apartment, leaning against the lip, staring up at the autumn moon, full and pink in the sky. 

“What’s the deal, Stevie?” Bucky came up behind him, and it was Bucky, and not the Soldier anymore. That had been a relief, bringing Bucky home from Wakanda. The Accords were signed, stupid as they were, revised and mostly tolerable, the way chewing tinfoil was terrible, and the taste in his mouth was like headache powder. But they were home, and Bucky was home, and they were under a New York moon. Bucky had taken up the second bedroom in Steve’s old apartment, and Steve had left him a note on the kitchen table. 

 _Roof?_  

Steve held out a bottle. “Thought you might join me for a drink?” 

The strains of Duke Ellington wafted up from the window; Steve had put his speakers on the sill and opened the window. 

“Yeah.” Bucky took the glass and Steve poured him a few fingers of rotgut. The smell, oil and juniper, brought back a hundred memories. Bucky knocked it back with practiced ease, swishing the liquor around in his mouth -- to polish his teeth, he’d joked once that the gin could strip even the worst coffee stains free -- and swallowing with a heavy sigh. Steve leaned against the cement rail and watched Bucky’s throat work. 

God, he was beautiful. Even now, even knowing all the horrible things that he’d done, that had been done to him. He’d looked like an angel. Now he looked like a fallen angel, the darkness in him called to the darkness in Steve. 

“I remember this song,” Bucky said, tilting his head to one side. 

“Do you?” 

Bucky didn’t always remember things. Some days were better; some memories were stronger. 

“Yeah.” And there was a strange hunger in the way Bucky looked at Steve, stronger than a memory. Something that was real and _now_. 

Steve tucked his right hand at the small of his back and offered his left to Bucky. “Thought you might want to… _practice_.” 

Bucky grinned, and there was nothing dark or melancholy in that. “I believe I would,” he said, and took Steve’s hand. 

Steve drew him in, the familiar start position to most of the dances they’d known, but Bucky had other ideas. He cupped his hand around the back of Steve’s neck, pulled him closer, and captured Steve’s mouth with his own. Steve surrendered to the kiss, aching with need, with the empty place in his heart that was suddenly filled. 

“Oh, _Buck_.” 

“Always thought we needed more practice with _this_ ,” Bucky said, almost shy, against Steve’s throat. “You were the perfect dancer.” 

“Only with you,” Steve promised. They kissed again, desperate, needy, like they were rushing toward some impossible goal. “Only ever with you.” 

“Well, practice makes perfect.”

They didn’t get to perfect that night. But there were a lot more nights in front of them.


End file.
